


Just Eat

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Takeout..... ahem.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 141
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	Just Eat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).



Crowley should have expected that the angel would get peckish. Peckish in the kind of way you couldn’t cater to with long-life snacks kept about the place for emergencies. Peckish in the way that meant ‘I want a full, three course meal’ but ‘I don’t want to go out into the night’.

Not that he could blame him for the second part. They’d just very sincerely shagged their way over nearly every piece of furniture, or wall, or stair in the damn place. Rug burns that would linger til at least tomorrow, love bites and cowboy-walks and after-shocks they likely felt as tremors on the opposite side of the globe…

Heh. They’d out-done themselves this time. Aziraphale had been particularly suggestive all day, until Crowley had snapped and growled, “Home, now.” And then stuck his tongue past his teeth, and hands past his belt, and sense of decorum somewhere it really wasn’t meant to go.

Three times. And then there’d been the interlude with just their hands. And then the wrestling. And…

Suffice it to say, Crowley was very, very smug. And Aziraphale was even _more_ smug. Things still were throbbing and almost ticking with his too-fast heartbeat, and he was sure that even after he’d wiped clean, he could feel the lube and more… ahem… intimate fluids all over his thighs. (Chest. Hands. Belly. Lips.) 

But the angel was hungry.

And you didn’t leave your angel hungry, if you knew what was good for you. They might vanish off to some war-torn country for candied fruits, or walk into a bus on the way to Harrods, or…

(Also, because he loved to dote on him. And give him anything he wanted. Usually before he needed to ask, so he didn’t need to be thanked. Or with a false patina of protest, so he could look undeserving of praise, even though both of them knew it was a ridiculous dance on both their parts.)

So he’d ordered in. From the brief intersection of ‘places distinguished enough to please Aziraphale and he won’t have to pretend to being above somewhere he actually isn’t but he thinks everyone thinks is his standard so he must maintain it’ and ‘places that deliver to this postcode’. 

And he ordered a bit extra, because he knew the angel would be dancing on that line between openly admitting his gluttonous desires, and appearing genteel and dignified. 

He was not. He was a big, fat liar. He loved to stuff his cute little angel face and Crowley was determined to see him smothered in sauces and crumbs and _happy_ , damnit.

Which was why he’d taken the hasty shower, and Aziraphale had remained in bed. Looking… disgustingly tasty. (Later, Crowley, later.) Sprawled and sighing and stroking the sheets and wriggling in all sorts of provocative ways that made him wonder if Aziraphale hadn’t been the first tempter, after all?

Whatever. He could (would) refrain from jumping him again. Until he’d had enough of the food. And then… all bets were off. He was going to shove his snout between those thighs and have his own meal. And then he was going to push him into the headboard and feed him. And th--

Crowley had to tuck things back as he heard the doorbell go. It only existed when he was happy for it to exist, and there were never any cold callers. Sometimes he let the wandering preachers try to convert him, but only because it was funny. (Even Aziraphale thought so.)

He smiled distantly at the delivery… young… thing… (Girl? Boy? Eh, who cared.) And he was about to rush them off when:

“Did you make sure they included the chilli sauce?”

“Angel! Yes, I--”

“The hot one. Sometimes it isn’t, and the sweet one is nice but it doesn’t go as well with the--”

“I _know_ , angel. I’m not stupid. It’s--”

“Maybe I should come and check so the poor dear doesn’t need to--”

He heard feet hit the floor, and for a moment the world stopped. Probably literally. The angel was a _mess_ of ravished holes and other things, and he was sticky and lazy and gloriously flushed and… there was NO WAY HE WAS GOING TO LET ANYONE ELSE EVER SEE HIM LIKE THAT, EVER, EVER, EVER.

Crowley slammed the door shut in the young person’s face, and turned to see the BASTARD DEVIL OF AN ANGEL smirking at him, wrapped, Roman-style, in a semen-stained sheet. (So, definitely Roman-style.)

“ANGEL.”

“You didn’t tip them, my dear.”

“GET BACK IN BED.”

“I was simply making sure you remembered to hurry back,” he insisted, with a rake of his eyes over the demon’s body which indicated that the clothes were pretty much invisible, at least to him. One finger hooked the heavy bag of food and then the sheet fell to the ground as he turned, giving him a perfectly round and inviting waggle of an ass to watch leave.

Crowley opened the door, shoved whatever notes were miraculously to hand in the driver’s chest, slammed the door again, and tried not to trip over his feet as he ran after him.

Maybe they could both eat at the same time. He was suddenly _ravenous_.


End file.
